Friday, October 31


Turniphead, it calls itself, when names are worth
Something, dumb thing, its eyes dawdle, grin goggles,
Filthy earth-birthed thing.

Turniphead, he calls it, the one who fears it, cheers
Himself secretly with morbid musings, sick-wit choosings,
Never normal, not this one.

Turniphead, they call him, idiot tongue lolling about,
Without a brain, an empty head, so long been dead,
Still, crisp crunch inside.

Turniphead, it marks their words, stores them away
Where half-thoughts play, where half-made things
Wait for the right day.

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